Archive for December, 2012

Mark Maker # 4

Posted: December 30, 2012 in Viking novel
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My heart is ice. My heart is metal. I cannot remember what warm is. I cannot remember how warm she felt curled around me under layers of winter furs. The colour of her eyes has faded from my sight and the soft feel of her hair against my shoulder. Her comb lies on a shelf I made from slates. Dust covers it now. There is- I can see in a certain light-still a strand of her hair entwined in the comb’s teeth. I cannot touch it. I cannot look even near it to the shelf. I have put her clothes away in a chest. The chest I made and carved for her when she first came here.

“Asmundr!” calls my brother, ” I need food!” He is laid up on the platform under furs. I have packed his wound with dried mosss and carefully splinted the leg. I have strapped my own ankle and jaw. We have drunk all the beer I made to last the Winter in a week to numb the pain. But the beer has no effect on my frozen heart. Its warmth cannot reach there. There is ony one way to staunch that wound and because of my brother I cannot go and start that journey. So, every blink of my eye is measured as a century of winters. Every motion of my heart is a motion away from her. I do not even know if she still lives.

“Asmundr!”, he calls again.

I begin the aching slow process of assembling a meal.

Mark Maker #3

Posted: December 29, 2012 in Viking novel
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The carved doorway presses itself into my cheek. My hands grasp the edges and pull so that I fall down into our house, onto its sunken floor strewed with summer rushes now dark with mud and blood. Though the grit in my hazy eyes is obscuring my vision, there is no need to see where my brother is because his bellowing is shaking the foundations of our turf-roofed hut. He is a wolf trapped in a snare howling in the night. The sound is more unbearable than my pain. Finally I crawl to his broken body and see what they have done to him. A sword skewers his calf to the bed platform and the other leg is broken and twisted in a strange way. “Asmundr,” he screams, ” the sword!”

I pull out the sword. Swords are my life. I forge them endlessly folding and folding the metal into more and more intricate patterns and into a  harder and more durable instrument of torture. Heat, beat, heat, beat. Clang, clang on the anvil. Just like Thor and his hammer. The sword I pull from my brother’s leg is heavier than the most massive sword I have ever forged. Not the same size though, because only to lever myself up high and long enough to pull it out is an unbearable agony. I collapse next to him and my screams shake the walls so hard I hear snow fall from the roof…

Mark Maker Blog #2

Posted: December 27, 2012 in Viking novel
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My face is frozen into the snow. Death is coming for me, rancid as a whaler’s hold. I can feel the black rushing towards me like the powerful upward blow of a club.I can see my wife’s smiling face from the crowd at the beach the first time she stepped onto our island. I can hear my dog whimpering from the sword wound inflicted on her as she jumped at my enemy. I can see a dim light from a distant fire. I can hear my brother screaming my name..Asmundr, as if its meaning- divine power- could save him , for I am in no shape to help him…

Waves of nausea hit me in the soft part of my belly resting on the snow. I vomit and the greasy fish smell makes me vomit again. No matter how hard it is to move, I can’t rest my face in my own muck. I push my hands out and press so hard against the snow that I roll over onto my back…

I wake looking at stars sliding around the sky. I cannot tell if my eyes are shut and I see stars in my mind or if I am actually looking at stars. A moaning sound comes from the direction of my brother but black is welcoming me again. I know I won’t come back from the blackness, from the abyss, if I give up this time. I roll over again and attempt to lug one leg up under me to crawl. It doesn’t happen because my mind can only take so much pain. I try again hoping the pain might be something I can used to. I know my leg is broken and probably my jaw. The distant light beckons me with warmth. Somehow I crawl towards it. The moon has curved a month over the sky before I reach it- or so my minds feels…so slow…so slow.

Mark Maker Blog #1

Posted: December 26, 2012 in Viking novel
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(C) 2012 Amundr

A book is not written by a novelist. It takes verve and conviction and a certain positioning in the social grid. A book is written by a circumstance. So why am I here? First of all let me set you straight. There is no Mark maker. No . None at all. And he certainly isn’t me. I’m the kind of guy who languishes on a chaise lounge with a cigarette in a tapered holder and turned up cuffs on my trousers. Too Oscar Wilde? Ok, ok. You know its not easy keeping up with the trends. I am an old fashioned guy. How about, “I’m the guy with a bowie knife in my belt and a copy of ‘Deciphering Hieroglypics for Dummies’ in my shirt pocket?” What do you mean I still have it wrong? Who do you want me to be, then? An Arabian Prince? A Maori warrior? A French Legionnaire? A gladiator whose streak of pure, unadulterated luck is about to run out? Make up your mind! I haven’t got all day. That buzzing sound coming from the computer -some idiot on Yahoo is messaging her- is gonna wake her up. So I haven’t got long- Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeesssssse HURRY! I need to know…NOW! Remember Rule #1: There is no Mark Maker. Don’t forget..Damn! Too late! The Kraken wakes…